


no lightning, just thunder

by singmyheart



Series: a man's gonna sweet talk [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, complicated adult emotions, the jazz club au you've all been clamoring for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 07:29:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12164304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singmyheart/pseuds/singmyheart
Summary: An unsettling flash of deja vu in front of the neon sign crackling St. Sebastian’s; the A-frame on the damp sidewalk covered on both sides by a blown-up version of the flyer that’d been mocking her from the fridge for weeks. Hamilton and Mulligan and two strangers smiling, bowties hanging loose. A touch of old Hollywood about them, from the right angle.





	no lightning, just thunder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [canniballecters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canniballecters/gifts).



> this is a sequel to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10892205). read it first. it won't take long, what else are you gonna do with your time.

 

 

 

There were only a dozen or so, posted sporadically in the span of a year: Eliza eight years younger, heavy bangs, heavier makeup. Still that same liquid-gold voice and coy smile, although she didn’t seem to know quite what to do with either. These videos were all a little rough around the edges; roommates could be heard in the background here and there, the click of her nails on the keyboard. Charming in spite of that, or maybe because of it. All covers, a couple the unpolished cousins of the ones she’d do on stages years later, Lilac Wine and Misty Blue and One For My Baby.

Hamilton was in the last one, shoulder to shoulder with her in what must have been her post-college apartment. Both of them clearly hungover and grinning their way through Sinatra, leaning into each other. That one, Maria had only been able to bring herself to watch once — it seemed more of a window than the others, a conduit to this younger Eliza she hadn’t had the luck or privilege of knowing. Something private. She allowed herself the small, ugly thought that this sleepy early-morning adoration would harden in a few years’ time.

 

*

 

She had stayed away. The season changed and life went on and she contented herself with scraps, with this younger Eliza distanced by a screen and almost a decade. _Stop fixating,_ Maria told herself, disgusted, but no matter how many times she did it didn’t stick. _She’s married. And what is she to you, anyway?_

There had been no third-act declaration, no definitive end: the days marched on and she didn’t go back. Every Saturday night that she spent at home, not tucked up in the corner of the bar nursing a pint and waiting to be noticed, it got a little easier.

It crept up on her sometimes, the worry: what, exactly, was Hamilton capable of? Who did he know, how much did he know? She could recognize bruised ego a mile off — and there had been no shortage of that, sure, but that wasn’t all of it. And while she wasn’t afraid of him — far from it — she wasn’t stupid, either. Didn’t doubt that he could, and would, make good on his word.

 

*

 

And then she looked up from wrestling an uncooperative lid onto her to-go cup at the coffee shop and there it was. Sucker punch. Black-and-white flyer at her eye level, unremarkable among dozens of others except for Hamilton’s face, half in profile. Looking at someone somewhere over her left shoulder. Maybe a decade younger. Mulligan, too, she saw, and two other men she didn’t recognize. _One night only._ She skimmed it like it’d give her some kind of clue, any indication as to the things she actually wanted to know. _Reunion… tenth anniversary… Saturday August 26th._ Two weeks from now.

She reached up and pulled the flyer off the bulletin board, and tucked it into her bag without looking at it any more.

 

*

 

She wouldn’t go. That wasn’t even a question. Came up with ever-more-elaborate justifications for the jury in her head as to why she _could_ go, but ultimately wouldn’t. The flyer stayed on the fridge. Hamilton looking through her, grinning at someone just over her shoulder.

 

*

 

Her train had been delayed, because of course it had; she was already an hour late getting home, wanted nothing more than to shower and crack a bottle of wine when she got there.

“Maria?”

She braced, and looked up, and — oh. “Eliza. Hi.”

“I thought that was you,” Eliza said, offered a self-conscious little smile.

“In the flesh,” Maria said, and shook herself — no idea how to play this.  Very aware that she was in yoga pants, hair three days unwashed, and Eliza looked perfectly put-together despite the oppressive late-summer heat, linen sundress, watch on her wrist that probably could have sent a kid to college.

“How have you been?” That was a little guarded but genuine enough as far as Maria could tell.

“I’ve been okay,” she said, carefully. “Keeping busy, I guess.”

“Same here,” Eliza said, and nodded. “I don’t know if you heard, but we’ve got this fundraiser thing coming up, so that’s been sort of an ongoing tension headache, and...” She stopped suddenly, tried to backpedal. “I realize as I say this that it’s, like, really unlikely that you’d have heard —” She was flailing, a little, uncomfortable in a way Maria couldn’t recall ever seeing her, not that that meant much.

“It’s fine,” she said; Eliza looked relieved. “I had heard, actually… there was a flyer, and — when you say fundraiser…”

Eliza sighed, waved a hand. “It’s — my parents — you know what, I won’t bore you with the details. It’s just been one fucking thing after another, and it’s not even going to work, it’s all kind of last-ditch, but at least we’re going out with a bang.”

Maria wasn’t sure where to start, here. Eliza had let that all out in a rush, clearly venting; Maria privately conceded that Eliza’s day was going worse than her own.  

“Anyway,” Eliza continued, “not that you asked, God, sorry — it’s just been — a lot, lately. I guess I don’t have a lot of people to bitch to, these days.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Maria told her, and meant it. Eliza’s answering smile was a little rueful, embarrassed. Still, they didn’t say anything further, close enough to touch but quiet, for a while.

“This is me.” Eliza hesitated, and then leaned in and kissed her cheek. Lightly and too quickly, and she was drawing back. “It’s really good to see you, Maria.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Eliza waved; Maria watched her squeeze through the crush of bodies on the platform and head for the stairs, until the bright blue of her sundress was swallowed up in the crowd.

 

*

 

The Saturday of the show dawned wet and dark, not sure if it wanted to storm. Rained half-heartedly on and off for a while but it cleared by midafternoon, dried up to leave no trace of the morning’s slate-grey misery.

She wouldn’t go. Kept telling herself she absolutely wouldn’t go as afternoon rolled into evening, as she exchanged her jeans for a cocktail dress. She’d take herself to dinner, she thought, at one of the nicer restaurants downtown she so rarely had occasion to visit. Oysters, maybe — were oysters in season? Wine, definitely, and cheesecake.

An unsettling flash of deja vu in front of the neon sign crackling St. Sebastian’s; the A-frame on the damp sidewalk covered on both sides by a blown-up version of the flyer that’d been mocking her from the fridge for weeks. Hamilton and Mulligan and two strangers smiling, bowties hanging loose. A touch of old Hollywood about them, from the right angle.

She went inside, steeling herself, but — of course it wasn’t Mulligan behind the bar who mixed her a whiskey sour when she asked and didn’t give her a second glance. Half an hour or so til the band was meant to start and the place was filling up; it’d be tight. The stage half-lit; the piano as usual, but drums too, stand-up bass. A couple of saxophones, flute and clarinet. And she saw — halfway across the room, Eliza’s profile, unmistakable. She stayed along the wall and disappeared through a side door, slipped into shadow.

It was stupid to follow, and not only for the eight-dollar drink she abandoned to do it; who knew where she was headed, who she might run into. The first handful of half-open doors she peeked into along the hall turned up empty, and then she heard music playing faintly down the end.

Eliza was in front of the huge vanity with its mirror lit, her back to Maria. Heard her approach and looked up — might have been shock on her face for a split second, maybe? It was gone as quickly as it had come. Eliza didn’t look at all surprised to see her and Maria was reminded uncomfortably of where she had seen that expression before, in a dream that had stubbornly refused to fade. “Hi,” Eliza said, soft. “Would you — give me a hand?”

Maria crossed the room to her. The pale skin of her back delicate, diaphanous, against the heavy fabric of her dress. She swept her hair over her shoulder so Maria could zip it up, cover the light dusting of freckles, the knobs of her spine. “No one at home to do this for you?” she asked; neutral, or so she thought.

“I like getting ready here,” Eliza admitted. “It’s silly, but — it’s the romance of it, you know? Glamour. A little theatre.”

“Mhm,” Maria offered, token. Eased the tiny hook into the eye at the top of the dress and stepped back. Tried surreptitiously to look over her shoulder, scan the room for some kind of sign: men’s cologne, she thought, cufflinks somewhere on the countertop. Nothing jumped out at her. Eliza didn’t turn but sat, crossed one leg over the other, surveyed the makeup half-emptied out of the train case and scattered in front of her. A sudden fierce and inexplicable ache in Maria’s chest at that, to watch her ankle and the line of her calf expose themselves, the whisper of fabric as it moved.

“You can’t be here,” Eliza said, calmly. “You know that.”

“I’m not too concerned.” That was a little sharp, rang insincere to her own ears.

“I didn’t say you should be.” A pause. Eliza set about doing her makeup, finished one eye and started on the other before she said, “What did he say to you?”

Ever wary of an attempt to catch her in a lie, Maria asked, “He didn’t tell you?”

“Just said you ‘wouldn’t be coming back’.” Air quotes around the words.

“Looks like I made him a liar, then, didn’t I?”

Eliza paused in swiping the dust of fallen-off eyeshadow from her cheek and said, “Don’t insult my intelligence, please, Maria, it’s bad enough when he does it.”

Something loosened her tongue then — maybe the implication, however slight, that she and Hamilton were in any way the same — and it came out bitter: “Said he’d — make me regret it, I think, were the exact words.”

“Did he.” Eliza was caught off-guard by that and they both knew it but she recovered quickly.

“That surprises you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You think I’m lying.”

“I didn’t say that, either. Just…” She sighed, long and weary. Something kept Maria from interrupting while she gathered her thoughts; finished her makeup, slipped half a dozen delicate glittering rings onto her fingers, slid a comb adorned with silk flowers carefully into her hair. “I wouldn’t have expected him to stoop _quite_ so low, I guess.”

Maria couldn’t suppress a scoff, a quick burst of almost-laughter, mirthless. “I think you’re giving him too much credit.”

“I know who I married.” Terse. Defensiveness flared up.

 _I’m sure you think so,_ was Maria’s first, acid thought, and she bit it back; that was uncalled for.

The Eliza in the mirror held her gaze for a long moment, and then the real one stood and turned to her. “Well... if that’s true —”

“If —”

“In that case, I mean — Alex definitely can’t know you’re here.”

“He’s not going to.” More casual than she felt. She couldn’t recall ever having heard Eliza use his first name; it sounded strange.

“Don’t make me have to say it...”

“So, what? You’re just going to let him tell you who to talk to? Like he’s —”

“Oh, please —”

“Let him tell you who to be friends with? Or — not even _tell_ you, just act like you’re —”

“Friends is hardly the word I’d use.” She said it in the same measured, quiet way she said everything else, but it stopped Maria cold.

The question was right there, squeezed into the space between them. Which wasn’t so much space at all, she noticed, suddenly. How had that happened. Music still playing low from what must have been Eliza's phone somewhere in the room; she couldn't tell exactly where. 

Eliza started to answer the question Maria hadn’t asked, said, “I think —” and pulled up short. Maria caught the shimmer in her eyeshadow, counted three diamond studs in her ear. “You shouldn’t be here,” she repeated, almost to herself. A sudden fierce, blazing look of determination on her face, and then she took Maria’s face in both hands and kissed her.

Maria would have been shocked into stillness if it weren’t a little clumsy, hard enough to knock her back a step. Took her a second to kick her brain back into gear but she did, her own hands reacting almost without its express permission: met Eliza halfway, caught her around the waist. Didn’t realize she was giving as good as she was getting until Eliza collided with the edge of the counter, sucked in a breath through her teeth, could have been surprise or pain —

Maria got a thigh between hers, as best she could with the interference of two dresses definitely not designed for this, and Eliza let her. Opened up easily for the brush of her tongue and the tiny sound she let out was so sweet and shocked and Maria was sure, all at once, that this was new — Eliza hadn’t done this before, had never kissed a woman. Eliza clung to her, let Maria kiss her now instead of the other way around, two hands buried in her hair. Maria thought, too, of Hamilton, and was furious at herself for it, the soft-focus dream she hadn’t been able to forget — _Bets, look_ — and her stomach turned.

She jerked back as if burned, felt the sudden absence of Eliza’s touch tenfold. “That — I should go,” she got out, absurdly, tossed it down between them. Unsure if she wanted Eliza to protest or not.

Eliza’s lipstick had smudged, a little, and she was panting. Looked kind of shellshocked, which might have been flattering in other circumstances, cute. She didn’t say another word, turned back toward the mirror, seemed not to know what to do with herself for a moment.

Old as it was, the building was a labyrinthine deathtrap; Maria took at least one wrong turn in the maze of narrow hallways before she made it back out to the bar proper. It was well and truly packed now, and loud. She should have left.

The stage was no longer unoccupied, she saw: Mulligan next to the bass, and one of the men from the flyer, tall and lean. Both of them in dark, beautiful suits, wingtips. She wondered where Hamilton was, and the other one, wild-haired and wild-eyed. Hamilton, for his part, came in a few minutes later, with Eliza — and Maria had to have been imagining the look they shared, conspiratorial, almost smug. Eliza smoothing her hair down, Hamilton furtively tucking his shirt in at the back.

They didn’t bother even to greet the assembled crowd, just passed a look between the four of them and started to play. The room quieted in an instant; not fell silent, but collectively sat up a little straighter. A dead slow, dirty groove, maybe half-improvised. Even under her lingering unease, it was hard not to be impressed.

The applause came in before the last chords had begun to fade; Hamilton waved for order from behind the kit, grin threatening to split his face clean in half. “Well, hello to you, too. None of you had anything better to do on a Saturday night, that it?” She thought she could see it slipping into place as he went on, the showman thing — wasn’t long before he had the room in the palm of his hand, laughing, just easy banter. He introduced the band and they played through another handful of songs — that same airtight take on Gershwin, Ellington — before he spoke again. Cleared his throat, shot his cuffs: a nervous movement. “I know we all know why we’re here,” he started, “so I’ll keep it short for once — we haven’t done this in ten years.” The crowd sobered a little as he went on, settled. “Almost to the day. When we lost — fuck — when Jack died it didn’t feel right, to any of us, to go on without him, so we just… didn’t. There’s no — there’d have been no replacing him, he was just — just the best man I ever knew.” Scattered applause while he took a breath, collected himself; he was tearing up and he wasn’t the only one. “Hell of a piano player, too. I’ll tell you that for free.” Laughter, shouts; Hamilton cuffed at his eyes and lifted his water bottle in a toast. “So, if you would — to Jack Laurens.”

Everyone with a glass mirrored him, and the name traveled around the room, _to Jack._  

“Ten years. We figured that was long enough, no? Thought it might be time to dust off our suits, old dogs, old tricks, and all that. We’re so fucking glad you’re here.” All of them grinning now at the applause, thrilled and a little embarrassed. “Now,” he went on, “on the subject of old tricks…” He looked at Eliza, and then winced exaggeratedly at the wave of laughter that went up.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” she protested, waved a hand, “he’s sleeping on the couch for that one. Anyway, this song — Gil and Jack used to do this one, and I think, actually, you did it the first time I ever saw you play…” She looked around at them for confirmation; Hamilton nodded. “And I thought, I wonder if either one of them is single — and then Jack passed out in the parking lot with Hercules and Gil went home with my friend, so. I settled for the drummer.”

Laughs, a rim shot from Hamilton. “My wife, Don Rickles, everybody…”

Eliza looked at Gil — Hamilton had called him “the Marquis”, impeccably dressed, sax strap around his neck — and lifted an eyebrow. “Ready?”

“When you are, darling.”

“Like the wallpaper sticks to the wall…”

“Like the seashore clings to the sea…”

It was evidently a crowd-pleaser of a duet, a chummy sort of back-and-forth. Gil obviously wasn’t a trained singer the way Eliza was but he was good, comfortable in the way he seemed to be with the sax, and the flute, and the clarinet, and doubtless others; and he was charming as all hell besides.

Maria was trying so hard not to watch Hamilton as the evening wore on that she almost missed it, the declaration that they were taking a break, would be back in ten. She got it together in time to see Gil and Mulligan step down off the stage and shake a hand or two — and Eliza made to follow them but Hamilton caught her around the waist. Dipped her low and kissed her, and she was laughing when he let her go but didn’t go far, squeezed his hand. The whole routine had the easy grace of a dance broken in by a decade of matching each other’s steps. Familiarity, earned. Both of them a little flushed, giddy, high on the success of the night and in love and beautiful. The success, at least, was bittersweet; Maria knew that much.

The pair of them folded into the crowd same as they always had; it could’ve been any other night, save that the crowd had swelled to twice its usual size. Maria was aware of shrinking somewhat, mapping the quick, unobtrusive route to the door, and hating herself for it just a little.

When she looked back at them one last time they were all laughing, tucked close; Mulligan holding court, Eliza at Hamilton’s elbow, Gil on her other side, a half-dozen assorted hangers-on. Someone pressed a drink into Hamilton’s free hand and the universe aligned at precisely the wrong moment: he looked up, over the someone’s shoulder, and caught her eye.

That was shock on his face, she was sure of it. For just a second. Just a flicker. And then, subtly enough, he raised his glass to her. A tiny gesture, but unmistakable. Lowered it again, and tipped his chin toward the door. She might have missed it if it weren’t meant for her — it went unnoticed by everyone in his immediate vicinity, that was for sure.

He waited until she moved — until he was satisfied that she’d understood, that she was doing as told — before he broke eye contact. Turned back to his conversation as if nothing had happened. Nothing had, not really.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes on her, couldn’t calm the frantic thud of her heart, until she was safely in a cab bound for home. It started to rain again just as she reached the front steps.

 

*

 

Two or three weeks later she saw it, paging idly through a day-old newspaper in the coffee shop. Three inches tucked away in a corner of the local section: _St. Sebastian’s closes its doors for good._ Small, grainy photo from that night, Gil and Mulligan and Hamilton and Eliza, caught a little harshly in the camera flash but pressed close and grinning fit to burst, dressed to the nines, drinks in hand. The crush of patrons around and behind them was blurry with motion, mostly faceless and indistinct.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> for Lindsay! 
> 
> title comes from "Palace" by Dessa. Gil & Eliza's duet is "Me & My Shadow", [here's the Sinatra/Davis version.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5hXtGkzZ9k) you're welcome. ring-a-ding-ding. 
> 
> as ever, I'm being a bad person on tumblr [@youbuiltcathedrals](https://www.youbuiltcathedrals.tumblr.com).


End file.
